Cardiophilia
by Okadiah
Summary: Set during Season 2. Hannibal is harvesting from his victim when she engages him in a philosophical discussion on death and matters of the heart. It would be rude of him not to participate in the polite discourse before she bled out.


**A/N:** Been sitting on this one for a while. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Cardiophilia**

"Are … are you going to take my heart?"

Hannibal paused in his work detaching the liver from the young woman's body before he looked up to regard her pale face. Her body had long since begun to fail from blood loss and extreme damage, taking with it much of the pain and putting her in a state of shock. She was going to die soon and she had not been a troublesome pig, now that he looked back. She'd actually been quite cooperative, like a doe which knew there was no escape and had accepted the reality of death.

He appreciated that, and he could reward her with an honest answer.

"Yes," he said smoothly as he watched her eyes, interested in how she would take his response. "I intend on taking your heart. I don't think you'll be in much need of it soon, no?" The psychiatrist waited patiently. People did not usually take such blunt information easily, particularly when it came from the person who was slowly eviscerating them.

Her chest trembled, he could see her lungs heave from where he'd opened her chest and removed her sternum, and she gave a dark chuckle.

"No," she managed to wheeze. "No, I suppose not."

Hannibal lifted a manicured eyebrow in intrigue as he straightened, his plastic suit squeaking in an undignified manner. He had not expected such a response. Instead of responding in horror, or pleading for her life and for him to spare her, she'd responded with satirical humor.

Why had she done that?

"You do not seem particularly disturbed by what I'm doing to you. What I'm about to take from you," he commented as he gripped his scalpel again, this time digging deeper into her body cavity, looking for her spleen. "You have not fought me, not since I began pulling out your intestines." Ah, there it was, bathed in a pool of blood from the vessels which should have been connected to the other organs he'd removed earlier. A quick assessment told him that it was healthy meat as well. It would make a fine meal.

Just as he made the first incision, he asked, "Tell me, do you not fear death?"

She had not been able to stop a small gasp of pain, her body involuntarily tensing in response to the knife, but she seemed to use his questions as an anchor to focus on because she breathily responded, "I don't see the point in-in fearing it now that it's … it's here." She paused, to catch her breath, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to focus past the pain. "And why should I care ab-about what you're g-going to do to my body after … after I'm dead? It's not like-"

A series of weak coughs interrupted the young woman, causing her chest to heaved pathetically now that the natural pressure of her body which aided lung inflation was gone. Stoically he noted that she was choking. Judging from the frantic beat of her heart where it lay nestled between her lungs, the effort she was using to speak threatened to kill her.

It would be rude of him not to let her finish speaking. After all, she was proving to be a mildly fascinating victim, which was saying quite a lot in comparison to all of the other pigs he'd harvested from. Perhaps he might engage her in a brief philosophical debate on death? She seemed to have an interesting view of it.

After making the final incision he needed to successfully remove her spleen and carefully placing it the heavy-duty plastic pouch he would keep it in until he was ready to prepared it, he set the knife to the side where all of his other utensils gleamed silver and scarlet.

Hannibal looked down at her reclined position on his operating table and said, "Please bear with me for a moment. I will get you something to help you breathe until the operation is over." He gave her a gentle, thoughtful smile, just to see how she would react to the fact that he was going to actively prolong her life for a few more moments. He watched her eyes roll up to meet his, incredulity filling the almost dead gaze, but she did not do more than that.

The barest flicker of real amusement made the false smile he used turn into something a little more real before he moved around the operating table to pull a breathing machine closer and flicked it on. Reaching for the mask attachment, he held it before his hand to check that it was working properly, and placed it over the young woman's mouth and nose.

"Just breathe naturally," he coached, keeping the mask attachment firmly pressed to her face, and he waited patiently as the machine began to work with her lungs to maintain a steady rhythm of positive air-pressure. Pleased, he watched her lungs steadily inflate in a more natural rhythm enforced by the machine, and her heart began beating more slowly. It was only once he saw that, that he returned his attention to her as he took a seat on the stool behind him. "You were saying?"

Confusion touched her eyes for a moment — the pain must have made the entire procedure eons long in her mind. He supposed it was entirely possible that she'd forgotten she'd spoken at all — but then comprehension replaced it.

"It … It's like you said," she whispered between puffs of the machine. "… not like I'm going to … to need it."

He looked at her approvingly. It was a very true statement. But now he was curious.

"Why did you ask me if I was going to take your heart?" he asked. "Why not the lungs, or the stomach, or even your brain? There are many dishes which can be made from any of those."

"Dishes?" she breathed, eyes going wide as she comprehended his exact intention. With dignified fascination he watched as the machine worked harder to supply her with air as she began to breathe a little more rapidly, her heartrate rising. But then … it all slowed again, and he watched her body relax. A small chuckle and smile caused him to look back up at her. Why was she smiling? Why did she find this amusing?

"Should … should have guessed … as much. You've only … taken edible org- … organs after all."

He was impressed. She knew enough about food to identify the parts most commonly used in the culinary arts.

"To answer … question … heart's most important," she said brokenly, her eyes rolling for a moment as her body convulsed with mild tremors.

"Because of love?" he prompted, waiting for her to come out of the fit. "The heart is commonly associated with that emotion. Is that why you're interested in it?"

It took her a long moment to come back to herself, though given the extent of her … operation, that was not surprising. It was actually slightly above average, if he recalled the data correctly.

"No," she finally managed with a weak cough, causing the inside of the transparent mask to spatter with a thin mist of blood. "Although you're right … not love. It's life. Heart's … life."

His eyes narrowed and he leaned back on his stool, his mind idly working through this new bit of information. So she viewed the heart as an organ of life. But if she knew he was going to kill her, take away her life, why had she asked if he would take her heart in the first place? It seemed an irrelevant question.

He asked her as much.

She smiled and looked away, almost as if she was self-conscious of her answer.

"Just wanted … to ask you to … to save it for last."

Hannibal stared.

"Why is that? If I were to take your heart now, you would die much sooner. You would not suffer as long. Would you not prefer that?"

"Don't want to suffer," she agreed, and through the mask her lips began to tinge blue. "But … but wanted to feel my heart … my heart beat. Wanted to feel … final beat. The end of my life."

Ah. Now he understood. She was curious. How she died, what happened to her, what he was going to do to her, none of that mattered. She was hanging on because she wanted to feel the final beat of her heart in her chest. She wanted to experience the final moment of life, when her body refused to continue functioning and death took her.

Hannibal looked down in newfound admiration at the young woman. How incredible.

He respected that.

"If that is your wish, I will leave your heart till the end," he said with a dip of his head. "Even if you should die before I am ready to take your heart, I will still take it last."

Something akin to disbelief filled her eyes, pulling a little more life back into her face, and she _smiled_.

"Thank … thank you," she said, going quiet for a moment, but he could see there was something more she wanted to say.

"Is there something else?"

She seemed surprised he'd noticed her rather obvious desire to state something else. He could only assume that she felt she might be provoking him with further questions. But he did not mind, for she was proving to be interesting. He was not in any particular hurry to harvest from her. It was just … grocery shopping. The FBI were busy handling other Ripper cases, Will was still within Dr. Chilton's care, he had no other engagements he needed to attend. Even with this unplanned discussion, he would still have plenty of time to prepare her body after she died. For now, he was curious. What more did she have to say?

"Can …," she paused, once again looking down as if shy about saying what she wanted, even when she was thick in the process of being disemboweled, and at his hands no less. But he could see when she realized that herself, and he smiled encouragingly as if to a child. After a moment, she continued. "Can I … can I hold it?"

"Your heart?" he questioned, so surprised by the unexpected nature of the request that he had not taken the time to choose his words like he usually would. She was asking for his permission to hold her own heart?

The young woman gave a jerky nod, her breath erratic for a moment, but her eyes remained certain. "Always … always wanted to … do it. Hold a beating … beating heart. Was a … a fantasy of mine. Get to … get to hold someone's life … in my hands. Feel … feel it beat. Why I wanted … to be a doc- … doctor."

He stared at her as something which might have been a disturbed form of tenderness and admiration filled him. Normal people did not have these sorts of thoughts, and if they did, they hid them deeply. They fought those dark urges with all they had, as if by ignoring those thoughts they would be spared from their own depravity.

She, this special young woman, had not ignored her urges, but had planned to find a way to embrace them, much like he had. He could only wonder what might have happened if he had managed to find her and her secret desire before he'd decided she was more worthy of sustenance than life. Would he have been able to … encourage her to explore these fantasies? She was not like himself, and certainly not like Will, but there was a spark of something which could have been incredible. The potential for true artistry, something which could have been beautiful. Would he have been able to encourage her to join the ranks of artists such as he? Just looking at her now with her secret exposed, he realized that she might have been a wolf in sheep's clothing.

It was a shame she wore her wool too well.

"So you want to feel your heart beat with your own hands," he said, watching as her heart beat faster just from the idea.

"Right up … until I die," she replied weakly, the blood in her face draining further to leave her olive skin an abnormal, pale color. "I won't … damage it, if you're … you're worried. Don't want … want to ruin … your meal."

He gave her a small smile and gently stroked her dark hair. How considerate. He had not even entertained the idea that she might damage the organ. She loved it too much to defile it like that. Hannibal was sure.

"This will hurt," he warned, more because it was the polite thing to do and not because he thought it would dissuade her. He was pleased to see that he was not wrong. Her eyes hardened, even when she smiled darkly.

"So what? It's the … last thing I … I want to do. What … do I care if … if it hurts?"

Hannibal nodded in approval, so very pleased with this young woman, this tame she-wolf.

"As you wish."

He reached for her nearest hand and, after giving her one final look, began to maneuver her limp, blue-tinged fingers in between the space of her lung and her beating heart. Immediately her breath became labored, and small, delicate gasps of pain escaped her lips. But she did nothing to stop him. Gave no indication that she did not want this as much as she thought she had. Once the first hand was in place, and he was sure that it would not slip out from where he'd positioned it, he reached for the other and repeated the delicate process.

From his educated perspective, he knew this had taken too much out of her, that it would only be a matter of moments before blood loss and shock finally lead to her death. But he knew there was just enough time to see her reaction to her dream finally come true.

Her mouth opened, her breath foggy clouds within the mask that continued to help her breathe, but it hid none of the emotions flying across her face, and it was as if he were reading her thoughts. Surprise, pain, wonder … and the distinct look of morbid pleasure. Even though she could not see her hands around her heart as the light of awareness in her eyes faded, he could tell that she was absorbed in the feel of it, the heady pulse of dying life. Of her life.

He could see she was … enraptured.

Hannibal took a deep breath because he did not have to imagine the pleasure she was feeling. He felt it every time he harvested. Every time he made a meal. It was the realization of the dream. The realization that hard work had turned something so sacred into reality.

The psychiatrist could not help but feel honored that he had been able to help her achieve her beautiful dream. He continued to stroke her hair, a tender smile on his lips though she could not see it. It did not matter. He was strangely proud of this young woman. He would make her into an exquisite meal, to honor this special gift she had bestowed upon him.

Her heart trembled in forewarning, and he focused his gaze on her face in time to see her smile grow in knowing.

"It's-it's happening," she said breathily as her eyes watered in what he could only describe as happiness.

"Yes. You are dying," he agreed, still watching intently. What would she do next?

The young woman almost seemed to sigh in relief at the admission, and let her head drift to the side to face him though she saw nothing. Her features softened, the stress which had wrecked her body slipped as her heart began to beat slower and slower. Then she smiled.

"Thank … you."

Gentle peace and understanding filled the psychiatrist.

"You are most welcome."

Her lips quirked up again from where they'd begun to fall slack as death sank in.

"Hope … hope you enjoy … me."

He chuckled. What a strange woman. Wishing her own murderer good fortune in his endeavors.

"I believe I will," he said honestly, close to her ear so she would have no problem hearing him. "Now hush. You do not have much time left. Enjoy this." These were the last moments she had, and he believed she had earned them. This was his respect to her, a master artist to a neophyte. "I will not continue until you are gone."

She was going, and she was going fast. Her heartrate had dropped significantly in the last minute, and although the breathing machine was still doing its job in inflating her lungs, it was futile. But it kept her heart beating just a little longer, which was the only reason why he had not turned it off.

Somehow she still had the tiniest bit of energy to spare, and with her final breath, she said with amusement, "That's … so … thoughtful."

He supposed that was true.

After turning the machine off, allowing the mechanical inflation of her dead lungs to cease, Hannibal lifted the scalpel he'd left on the tray and shifted in preparation. Her body had hardly twitched at her passing. It was actually quite remarkable. With his free hand he pulled the mask from her face and gently wiped away a dribble of blood from underneath her chin, cleaning the smile she'd held onto even in death.

This young woman. If only she had not been so good at blending in. If only she had not learned to be so tame, then maybe he might have spared her, for a time. Only a short time, or course, her meat was quite healthy, but he would have enjoyed seeing what she might have become. Something beautiful, perhaps. A true artist.

But alas, it was not to be, and there was no taking back anything now. But he was thankful to her for opening up to him. It was rare that someone could hide something such as this from his sharp eyes, and he appreciated her all the more for her truth and honesty.

With that final, satisfying thought and a gentle smile on his lips, he turned his attention to her open chest cavity. Hannibal's mind enshrined the image of the young woman clasping her own heart between her hands, a smile on her lips as if in peace from the simple act, within his mind palace. With care he placed her just right, so he would always remember her like this. It was almost divine.

He began removing her hands so he could detach and lift her lungs from her body, enjoying the familiar movements and the tell-tale slice and give of flesh beneath his knife once again.

A small, pleasant smile did not leave his lips as he worked.

What an unexpectedly good evening.

* * *

"What do you think, Doctor Lector?"

Hannibal looked at Agent Crawford from where he stood over the body of the Ripper's latest victim. He gave the man a weathered look, as if tired of having to see something so morbid again, before he turned his gaze upon the body of a young woman with short brown hair, olive skin paled by death and blood loss, and the strangest smile on her lips. One that looked pleased and relieved.

His wonderful she-wolf.

Hannibal examined his work for flaws, and was pleased because he found none, as he'd expected. Among his recent set of kills and presentations, hers was one he'd taken a fair amount of care in preparing. Many of his other designs were complicated, requiring extensive time and money, but with this young woman he'd opted for simplicity. He'd cleaned her body, after he'd removed her usable meat, and organized her with her legs curled under her body as she rested against a great oak.

Within her chest cavity, where her heart would have been, was a small bouquet of roses, one of each color except red, clasped between her bound hands. It was his final gift of thanks, and the smile on her face told the world of her acceptance.

It was truly beautiful to behold. Hannibal wondered what Will would think.

"I believe the Ripper is in some way honoring this woman," he told Agent Crawford as he knelt before her corpse, getting a better look in this light at his cutting technique from where he'd detached her lungs. Perfect, just as always, but it was good to see it from a different perspective. "For what, I can only hazard a guess, but the roses indicate thanks. One of each indicates the utmost thanks. She did something for the Ripper, and he honored her for that."

He could tell that Agent Crawford and his team were confused by his evaluation because although this looked like the Ripper's work, it was clearly not his typical style. It did not fit the profile well. But Will would know, even if these plebeians could never hope to make such an intuitive leap. Will would see it instantly.

It did not matter though, because though his mask was in place, he was still so pleased with this young woman. And looking at her now, he could not have imagined a better ending for her. Smiling in death with her hands around a beautiful bouquet where her beloved heart had once been.


End file.
